King Forever Under the Mountain
by V.Alchemista
Summary: Oneshot. Implied BilboxThorin. Rated T just to be safe. Takes place after the Battle of Five Armies. Horrible at summaries, apologies.


AN: Not my first fic, but definitely first for this fandom and first I've posted in a long time! Hope y'all enjoy and reviews would be lovely!

Was listening to "Evening Star" from In Elven lands when the idea for this popped into my head-hopefully it wasn't a half-bad one! And definitely recommend the song/album if you haven't heard it before.

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><p>It was dark and dank and cold, like it was every other day—winter in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain was a harsh thing, and there was still several weeks to go before one could even properly call it winter. The fires did nothing to help, not with the numbing cold or the encroaching darkness that lingered even though battle was behind them. Throughout the air was the smell of ash and fire and death and it nearly made one sick with the smell, but in a way one got used to it, until the realization of where one was and all that had occurred sprung up again and in the quick intake of breath of that foul air it was almost like reliving the battle all over again.<p>

And even though it would be called a victory, it hardly had felt like one. When one thought of battles, they usually thought of bravery, of glory, and riches, and honors—of merriment of a job well done and a celebration of victory that would be talked about through the passing ages. But none of that was present now… Here there was only fatigue, and grief, and sorrow.

The victory had been too costly, the price too great for a mere mountain. At least to Bilbo. Even with the promise of a home, it was too much, far too much compared to what they lost, what _he_ lost.

The walk had been long up to the gates of Erebore, torturous and painful in a way it hadn't been before. He looked around him, looked at the mass of figures that occupied the mountainside, all that was left of the Battle of Five Armies. Bilbo supposed it would be staggering to look at, if in the back of his mind he didn't have the image of how many had trooped in but days before to compare and see how small they had become.

"_To dungeons deep and caverns old"._

It felt like such a long time ago, since Bilbo had heard the song in his small, humble Hobbit hole, away from the troubles of war. Such a long time since he heard that voice that had moved him into adventure even if it was no proper place for a Hobbit. He thought about the song, of the splendore it painted of Erebore, even in its demise. He looked at it, the tall mound of earth and stone that so much had been lost for. He hated it in that moment, the beauty and magnificence and novelty long worn off by now. In time he had begun to believe he might call it home, but the promise of that had been lost a few days after the battle, and all he could see now was a tomb.

He looked back to the figures in front of him, proud sons of Durin waiting to be carried home at long last. His breath caught in his throat as he looked upon the twins' faces, perpetually peaceful now. He tried not to think about it, tried not to remember the way Kilí's body had crumbled so easily, tried not remember the shout full of so much anger and broken, shocked grief from Filí, heard clearly above all the other horrors of battle, as he ran to his brothers side, falling next to him not too long after. He tried to remember instead their laughter and their playful smirks and conspiring whispers that had ran far into the night along their journey, tried to remember their loyalty, and the jokes, and the sound of their fiddles when the road had been calm enough to play them. He did try, but all that ran through the Hobbit's head was death and pain and grief.

And as he looked to the figure in the middle he nearly lost himself all over again. There lay Thorin, looking like all of the grand king he had been so sure to be, that he had been. His hands were clasped on his chest, Orcrist safe in his grip, all of his other weapons and battlements splayed around him in a fierceful display, just like Filí and Kilí, and Bilbo had the fleeting thought wondering how long it must've taken to locate them all, for it was all there, even every last of Kilí's arrows.

He had been cleared of the dirt and grime that had covered him when Bilbo has seen him last, braids carefully put back into place and as Bilbo spied a particular wooden bead, he had to fight the urge to finger the braid in his own hair and the simple silver bead that accompanied it. He had to close his eyes against the shot of pain that ran across his chest at the memories such a simple object called up.

When he opened them again, he saw Balin shift in the corner of his vision and he looked to the elder Dwarf. He looked old, and tired, bone-wearied in a way Bilbo did not previously think was possible. The elder dwarf looked at him, so many things swimming in his gaze that it physically hurt to see and Bilbo wondered what it must be like to lose someone you have known for over a century. Something shifted in Balin's gaze before he gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head.

Bilbo felt nervousness and anxiety stir in him at the gesture, and he chided himself at the reaction—they weren't proper things to feel at a time like this. His moved his eyes away, gone to roam over the rest of the company as Balin's words from yesterday played in his head. _He would've wanted it laddie. _Bilbo had tried to argue—Hobbits had no songs fit for the deaths of kings and even if they did, he was hardly the Hobbit to sing them. But Balin had just kept repeating himself until he asked Bilbo to remember the smile that had always played on Thorin's face whenever the company had asked Bilbo to sing throughout their journey. Bilbo had stopped protesting after that.

So as he took in a breath, he thought about that smile and the strain that had cleared some around his frame and eyes, thought about the soft laugh that would escape at one of Bilbo's more randy songs. He had a fleeting apology to Thorin, for the song was of Elvish origin even if he had translated into common speech, but he knew of no great Dwarvish tales and Thorin had always (begrudgingly) liked these well enough. And as he began, began singing of war and love and battle and loss he thought about all Thorin had been.

He saw faces turn to him, surprise and something else on their faces, saw the company shift and bow and buckle as they let grief anew take them, saw Gandalf close his eyes and lean and sway in such a heavy way that Bilbo felt exhausted and broken just seeing him. He saw the widening eyes from the dwarves from the Iron Hills, saw the pitying look in Dain's eyes that made Biblo slightly ill, saw a dawning and an echoed grief play across Thranduil's features, if nothing more than for Bilbo's sake, saw the clenched jaw of Bard and his dark gaze. He tried not to pay them too much mind, instead focusing on the three bodies that lay before him, especially that of the middle.

He thought of rough, calloused hands, hands that seemed to belong more to a worker than a king; of biting words and soothing phrases; of the twinge of harp string and a low, pained but beautiful voice; of madness and bravery and nobility; of fumbled apologies and soft declarations; of pleads for forgiveness and apology that were some of his last breaths, even though there was nothing to forgive; of warmth and home in every sense of the word. He thought about all that was Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thror, son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain, all that was Thorin, leader of their company, Thorin who had come to mean more to Biblo than he ever thought possible.

He knew he was crying by now, had been for some time, but he couldn't for anything begin to care, to feel embarrassed or ashamed. Because his king, his Thorin lay dead and all that he and that meant and was was lying dead with him. The song was nearly done now, nothing left but a few more phrases, and they must've known it, or had taken some cue from Balin because the company was moving now, hoisting all that was left of three of Durin sons on their backs. And as Biblo sang of love and warmth and of a reunion that took far too much time, a reunion that was so far from him, they began to carry them away, deep within the heart of the mountain to lay beside their forefathers, never to be seen on this earth again.

And as he finished the last of the song, he could not help but say one final goodbye.

"Mabârimênu melhekhuh."

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><p>The last bit is (very) roughly translated Khuzdul. Hopefully, it translates roughly to "Rest now, my king""Sleep now, my king" .


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